


Season of Giving

by blackidyll



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fic, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 11:24:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2849192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackidyll/pseuds/blackidyll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It occurs to Dean that even if Cas left just ten minutes ago there’s no way the hot chocolate would still be this hot, that it hadn’t cooled down at all despite his conversation with Sam. </p><p>“Cas,” Dean murmurs, and wants to say <i>stop wasting your grace for stuff like this, jesus,</i> but Cas would glare at him for blaspheming if he finds out (time and distance doesn’t matter; Cas saves all his glares for when he gets back), so instead he props himself against the counter and pulls out his phone, texts <i>wake me up before you leave next time</i> instead.</p><p>Then, he wraps both hands around the mug, the warmth cradled between his fingers and the cinnamony-sweet scent comforting.</p><p> </p><p>Where there is hot chocolate and dates and flowers, and Dean and Cas do their best to keep warm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Season of Giving

**Author's Note:**

> [kamicom](http://kamicom.tumblr.com/) asked for "awkward christmas date," but this came out more like "awkward extended courtship of wintery doom". Bunker fic, takes place in a nebulous post-10x05 universe where Dean is not a demon and is free of the Mark of Cain and Cas is still an angel and isn't dying from it. 
> 
> Only fluff here, because it's holiday season.

There’s a mug of hot chocolate on the kitchen counter, wisps of warmth still rising from the hot liquid.

The thing is, Dean has a few morning routines. When he wakes up and is ready to stay up, he makes his bed. This isn’t a motel which he can abandon at any given notice; Dean has his own room now, permanently, and he takes care to straighten up and keep it neat.

Next, after the washing up and getting dressed (which are loose guidelines because sometimes Dean _likes_ the comfort of staying in his old sleeping tees, and sometimes he’s too lazy to shave) is coffee. Neither him nor Sam have anything approaching a normal sleeping schedule, even in the safety of the bunker, so the caffeine is more a necessity than anything else. The rule is that whoever is first in the kitchen starts the coffee machine, and the person who drinks the last cup sets it up again so there’s always a fresh brew ready.

But it looks like the coffee stage has been derailed today.

By a mug of delicious smelling hot chocolate, of all things.

Dean sticks his nose near the cup and inhales, getting a whiff of cinnamon amongst the chocolateyness.

“Sam!” Dean hollers, because the coffee machine is empty, all cleaned from last night, but Dean can see Sam’s favorite coffee cup in the kitchen sink, filled with water but with coffee residue at the bottom of it. “Sammy!”

Like magic, Sam pokes his head into the kitchen. “I’m not twelve,” he snarks. 

Dean points at the coffee machine.

Sam raises an eyebrow that disappears into his hair.

“What’s the rule, Sam?”

“First one awake makes the coffee. I’m heading to bed, so technically, you’re first up. You can make coffee if you want, but I thought since you had that hot chocolate and all.”

Dean gives Sam his best _cut the bullshit_ look, which over the years is capable of rivaling Sam’s bitch-face.

Sam smiles. “Cas made it for you before he left.”

Dean wishes he was imagining the smirk in Sam’s voice, but he’s gotten better at admitting certain things to himself (and only himself; he’s been to heaven and hell and purgatory and experienced life as something not quite human a couple of times, which makes him cling to all the parts of himself that is familiar. But at least the denial’s taken a dent, right?) and he’s already rounding the counter to brush a hand against the mug.

It’s at just the right temperature, not scorching but still pleasantly hot.

“Cas out again today?” Dean asks, ignoring the way Sam’s smirk is relaxing into something softer, happier.

“Yeah. One of his sisters sent him a message this time. It’ll probably be a couple of days.”

Dean nods, eyes dropping to stare into the mug. Then he lifts his hand to take a sip.

The hot chocolate is less sweet than Dean expects; it’s rich dark chocolate, with the spice of cinnamon and a more subtle heat that lingers when Dean swallows, like there’s pepper in there.

Weirdly, Dean _really_ likes it.

Sam stifles a yawn against the back of his hand, and Dean’s eyes shoot back up. “Hey, I’m heading to bed,” Sam says. “Cas checked the wards before he left, so you’re good this morning.”

Because that’s the third part of Dean’s morning routine, walking the perimeter of the bunker and checking that everything is still intact, that the bunker is still safe and – now he doesn’t have to. Now he can just sit in the kitchen and drink his hot chocolate instead of braving the cold because there’s no one else Dean would trust more than his angel and his little brother.

If they say he’s good this morning, then he’s good.

“Yeah, sure, get some sleep,” Dean says, and doesn’t bother to tease.

Sam shoots him another smile, and backs out of the kitchen without saying anything else.

It occurs to Dean that even if Cas left just ten minutes ago there’s no way the hot chocolate would still be this hot, that it hadn’t cooled down at all despite his conversation with Sam.

“Cas,” Dean murmurs, and wants to say _stop wasting your grace for stuff like this, jesus_ , but Cas would glare at him for blaspheming if he finds out (time and distance doesn’t matter; Cas saves all his glares for when he gets back), so instead he props himself against the counter and pulls out his phone, texts _wake me up before you leave next time_ instead.

Then, he wraps both hands around the mug, the warmth cradled between his fingers and the cinnamony-sweet scent comforting.

*

Cas doesn’t stay.

Dean doesn’t know what’s going on upstairs – he gets the distinct feeling that the other angels really don’t want him to know, and considering how Castiel had once derailed their entire operation on Dean’s account, Dean doesn’t blame them. He also gets incredibly angry whenever he thinks of Metatron, his blood simmering in that quiet, dangerous way that’s all Dean now that the Mark of Cain is gone, and it’s really better for everyone if Dean doesn’t get involved.

There are still angels on Earth, and Cas goes out to find them. The battered old car he salvaged from places (or people) unknown are his wings and it flies across the roads as smooth and swift as Dean can make it, carrying Cas in ever-widening circuits across the country with the bunker as his epicenter.

Cas doesn’t stay. But he always comes back.

Today is a Cas-is-here day, and he comes back bundled up to his eyebrows in winter gear. Dean opens the bunker doors to the sight of Cas in sweater and coat over the trench coat and heavy winter boots (oh yes, Dean heard them thumping against the bunker door – apparently, why knock when you can kick?), a scarf twirled around his neck and his mouth like the perfect death trap, a beanie pulled low over his forehead and fuzzy red earmuffs sticking out the side of his head. It’s such an incongruous sight that he stands stupidly in the doorway for a long moment, cold air rushing in.

“You’re in the way, Dean,” Cas says, voice muffled but distinctly deadpan, and Dean ducks out of the way, shutting the door the moment Cas is safely inside.

“You cold, Cas?” Dean asks casually, curling his hands behind his back so he doesn’t give in the urge to clutch Cas’s shoulders, as if he could hold Cas’s grace within his vessel that way.

Cas’s eyes flicker, seeing right through Dean. “My grace is still intact, and in no worse state than the last time you saw me. But humans have kept warm enough during the winter. I’m trying to expend grace only when necessary.”

“Then what, you lost your keys?” Dean complains, grumpy now that the fear is leeching away because he’d been comfortably toasty and now his toes are freezing.

And. And there’s something nice about someone letting themselves in, people who Dean trusts in his den (Dean’s going to skin Sam for putting that comparison in his head, but hey, at least Dean’s a badass _bear_ in that mental image). Like they’re comfortable enough coming in from the cold because they know they’re always welcome.

Like they know they’re family.

“I can’t use the keys with my gloves on.” Cas holds up a mittened hand. “And I know you’d be here.” He stares at Dean and the lack of any other facial cues makes his gaze even more piercing. “It’s cold, Dean.”

“Yeah okay, I get it,” Dean says with a sigh, although a grin is pulling at one side of his mouth. “Dig yourself out of your outdoor clothes, man, you look like a really messed up scarecrow-snowman hybrid.”

He leaves Cas to peel out of his coat layers and pulls open the coat closet. When Dean turns back to him expectantly, however, Cas clings onto his trench coat for a moment before reaching into the pocket and drawing out a small paperbag package.

“Here,” he says, unceremoniously shoving the bag at Dean, and ducks into the closet to hang up his things.

Dean grabs bag by reflexes honed by years of having all sorts of things – hex bags, guns, blades – thrown at him. He peels open the tape sealing the paperbag shut and peers down at the dried fruit within. They look a bit like prunes, actually, equally wrinkly but smaller.

“Dates?” Dean guesses, and from the vague noise Cas makes, he’s right. “You went on a scavenger hunt for angels and came back with dates?”

Cas appears with a glare. “One of my sisters was living with a family who took her in. When we left, they gave us some dates for our long journey, for they are sweet and nutritious and contain a lot of energy. I could have eaten them because I was _cold_ , but I didn’t.”

“Okay, okay, sorry.” Dean pulls out a date and pops it into Cas’s mouth. “Just chew,” he says to the extremely affronted look on Cas’s face, and fishes another one from the bag for himself, wiping the sticky residue left on his fingers on his jeans.

The date is soft and sweet. Dean’s already thinking of date nut bread, or maybe pancakes, sans the maple syrup.   

“Dean,” Cas says firmly.

“Cas,” Dean says right back, and tucks the paperbag into the crook of one elbow. “I gotta say, they’re pretty tasty. Come on, there’s coffee in the kitchen.” He glances back at Cas. “Or… hot chocolate?” 

The look of startlement on Cas’s face makes Dean mentally backtrack, cursing himself for letting his mouth run away from him. Sure, he’d rather liked the spicy hot chocolate and had spent about a week trying to replicate it, and during that period he’d entertained the idea that Cas himself might like something creamier, milk chocolate shavings and heavy cream and lots of caramel.

But Cas doesn’t need to know that.

Before Dean can brush it off with a laugh, however, Cas’s expression melts into a smile. “I’d like that.”

Dean smiles back, involuntarily, and Cas moves forward so they’re walking shoulder to shoulder.

Dean lets himself think of marshmallows and cinnamon sticks, things to top off their hot chocolate.

*

Christmas had mostly been just another day for Dean and Sam. Sometimes they exchanged presents, sometimes they switched the beer for eggnog from the corner store, and hoped the supernatural population stayed out of trouble for just one day because it was too damn cold to track them down.

Now that they have the bunker, though.

Dean has the kitchen, Sam the library (“To do what?” Dean had said, his hands covered with olive oil and herbs and delicious smells coming from the stove, “Build a winter castle from books?” and Sam had beaned him in the head with a cookbook), but the space between the two where they take their meals (Dean refuses to call it a dining room – it’s a bunker, not a mansion) is mutual, neutral space, so negotiations are necessary. 

Sam vetoes a Christmas tree right off the bat – “We’re not chopping down a tree, Dean. Do you know how long it takes for an evergreen to grow to that size?” – and Dean quickly cuts him off before he could get into a rant about sustainability and global warming. Sam offers to compromise with an artificial tree, which he claims is both economical and sustainable because they can reuse it the next couple of years. It isn’t really a tree that Dean wants, though, and so they settle on fairy lights all over the room, actual placemats at the table and a corner that Sam stakes out for the presents with spare scarves and the spillover from the papercraft takeover of the library.

(Dean glances in there, once, and the explosion of paper snowflakes and paper chains and wrapping paper drives him back out. There are little folded animals and geometric shapes too, in beautifully patterned paper, and Dean wonders if Sam learned origami at Stanford, or maybe during that year with Amelia).

He comes out of the kitchen late one night, having perfected a batch of pecan and walnut tarts – his moosey little brother’s favorite – and there’s a bouquet. In front of his room, set down just outside his door.

Dean detours away from knocking on Sam’s door.

It isn’t as girly as it sounds. The bulk of it is made up of fresh pine needles and pine cones, accented with red berries of the hopefully not poisonous kind and tiny white star-shaped blossoms, threaded together with twine. The bouquet will keep, even when the flowers wither.

There’s a raven’s feather tucked into the bouquet, glossy black and strong, and Dean strokes a finger down the spine of it. He thinks of the shadows of pinions, awe-inspiring and majestic, and how Cas doesn’t have his wings anymore and his heart aches, a strange twist of hurt and guilt and regret.

But when his hands tighten on the bouquet the sharp, woody fragrance of the pine needles rises up, clean and alive, and the memory sense hits him hard, of being four and small enough to crawl under the Christmas tree with little baby Sammy tucked carefully to his side, the smell of resin in his nose and twinkling lights that looked like stars in the dark.

There’s a scuffle of a foot behind him, and Dean turns, blinking hard.

Steam from the shower makes Cas’s face look softer, his hair still wet and curling against the nape of his neck.

“Cas.” The name falls softly from his mouth, and Dean clears his throat. “You’re back.”

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, amusement in his voice. “I am.”

Dean gives himself a mental shake, and nods his head at the bouquet in his hands. “Souvenir from your trip?”

Cas considers the bouquet. “I found the flowers on a side trip, yes. Pine trees are everywhere, however. Do you like it?” 

“Uh—”

Cas’s head tilts. “You like it,” he says decisively, and changes the subject like Dean’s pulse isn’t fluttering strangely in his chest. “Sam was in the library when I came in. He told me to ‘settle in’” – Dean can hear the air quotes – “first because you were baking and you’re more territorial than an angry bear when someone interrupts you.”

“Hey now,” Dean protests. It’s not his fault Sam can’t keep his hands to himself. There’s no point baking pecan and walnut tarts when half the pecans and walnuts disappear before Dean even puts them in the tart. “Oh hey,” he says, brightening. “You ever try pecan and walnut tarts before?”

Cas’s head tilts again, the other way this time. “No.”

“Come try some.” It’ll serve Sam right if he doesn’t get any (whatever – they all know Dean will cave and save him some anyway). “But go dry your hair first,” Dean says, and Cas goes back into the bathroom for another towel peaceably enough, even though the angel probably won’t catch a cold or anything.

Dean ducks into his own room to set the bouquet down on his bedspread. He has to resist the urge to bury his nose in the pine needles again, but just as enticing is the scent of baked pastry and roasted nuts, and Cas will be there to revel in it with him.

Dean makes his way back to the kitchen with a smile.

*

It’s the day before Christmas Eve (“Christmas Eve Eve,” Dean says, and Sam just groans) and Dean takes Cas to a diner, gets them burgers and hot cider and pumpkin pie for dessert and watches Cas under the warm amber lights, the conversations of the other diners a soft murmur of noise around them. Dean likes cooking and Cas likes Dean’s food, but it’s nice to take a break from it every once in a while, to let someone else handle the details for once.

It’s full on dark when they finally leave the diner, their breaths feathering before their faces. Cas’s trench coat barely seems enough, not with the snow falling softly into his dark hair, but the woolen monstrosity wrapped around his neck certainly looks warm enough. Dean flips up the collar of his jacket and wishes that he’d thought of gloves and scarves for once.

“So,” he says quietly, because Cas is gazing into the distance, contemplative, and Dean doesn’t want to break into his thoughts.

But Cas’s eyes flick back to meet Dean’s easily, and his head goes into that birdlike tilt. “Yes, Dean?”

Dean lets out an amused huff, and changes what he was going to say. “What’s so interesting that way?”

“A bird flew that way. Towards the lights.”

Dean turns and that’s the way to the park, where the trees have been strung with small fairy lights, glittering like fireflies in the dark.

“Come on then,” he says, and is halfway across the road towards the small gate that marks the entrance to the park when Cas catches up with him.

“This is not the way back to your car.”

“We’ll take the long way back to Baby,” Dean says easily, because it’s been a long, long while since he’s had a chance to walk in a park for fun instead of a graveyard for work, and Cas looks unguarded and quietly content under the little twinkling lights.

The park keepers have cleared the small path of snow, and it’s late enough that they’re alone, all other pedestrian preferring to stay indoors. The air is still here, sheltered from the wind by the heavy evergreens and the bare trees that still stand strong despite losing all their foliage. Dean sticks out his tongue to catch a snowflake, grinning at Cas’s intense stare of interest before bringing his hands up to his mouth, blowing on them to keep warm.

“Are you cold?” Cas asks.

Dean shakes his head, chafing his hands together now. “I’ll be fine for a little while more,” he says, but Cas is already moving, peeling the mittens from his hands and capturing Dean’s wrist easily.

“Cas,” Dean protests, but Cas is resolute and Dean doesn’t fight him when Cas tugs on the mittens, carefully guiding his thumb and fingers into the slots.  

“It’s cold, but I won’t suffer for it,” Cas reminds him. He unwinds the long woolen scarf and drapes it over Dean instead, his bare fingers brushing against Dean’s throat. Unlike the haphazard loops he’d chosen for himself, Cas ties the scarf into a proper knot, secure enough to keep out the wind but loose enough that Dean doesn’t feel like he’s suffocating.

“What happened to only using your grace when necessary?” Dean grouses, but the mittens are still pleasantly warm from Cas’s body heat and he’s already snuggling involuntarily into the scarf, dipping his head to rub his nose against the soft wool; it smells clean, the faintest whiff of ozone and lightning, and oddly enough, of pine resin.

“I’m not. Without the wind, this cold is just a minor discomfort for me.”

Dean looks at Cas, his throat bare and his ears slowly turning pink in the cold, and there’s a thought at the back of his mind, a thought that his body automatically puts into action because – well, he’s never been very rational about Cas, has he?

Cas’s eyes go wide when Dean descends on him. He brushes the snow from the trench coat, from Cas’s hair, and folds his mittened hands over Cas’s ears; looking at them makes Dean's own ears tingle in sympathy. His thumbs find the hollow behind Cas’s skull easily, and it feels so natural to leave them there, to have Cas cradled protectively between his hands. 

Dark eyelashes dip over blue eyes, a familiar look falling over Cas’s face – curious, confused, an expression that’s usually accompanied by the head tilt. Except this time he can't, doesn't even bother shaking Dean off. "Dean?"

“Looking at you like this makes me feel cold,” Dean tries to justify. There’s a weight on Dean’s wrists when he pulls back, however, Cas lifting his arm so swiftly that Dean barely registered them moving, keeping Dean’s hands exactly where they are.

“No,” Cas says. “This is nice.”

Dean’s throat is weirdly dry, and he licks his lips, feels the cold like a sharp cut over them. “Well, good.”

Cas gives him a small smile. It’s hard to feel anything through the knit, but Dean rubs his fingers against the delicate curves of Cas’s ears, stroking his thumb idly against Cas’s neck. It’s quiet, a peacefully calm moment, and when Cas speaks his voice is soft, like they’re hiding their secrets between them.

“You were going to ask me something earlier, in front of the diner.”

Dean thinks about deflecting, but Cas’s hands are steady, an unmovable force on his, and he blows out a careful breath instead.

“Just wanted to know if you enjoyed yourself.”

“I always enjoy spending time with you.”

Dean’s eyes dart up because it’s such a _line_ , a flirtation, except Cas doesn’t do that – the angel always speaks with such sincerity, and the quip Dean wants to send back catches in his throat instead.

Cas watches him, patient, and then he tugs Dean’s hands from his ears. He doesn’t let Dean go too far, keeps his fingers curled around Dean’s wrists. “I’ve been with you for many years, and we’ve taken many meals together, in diners and on the road, meals that you’ve cooked yourself. Why single this time out?”

Why indeed.

Dean thinks of the things Cas keeps bringing back from his trips; he goes to sleep with the scent of pine soothing his thoughts and Cas likes date nut bread enough that dried dates have made their way onto the grocery list. There are all the little gestures that Cas keeps making over the past few weeks, oddly thoughtful and yet quirky enough that Dean _knows_ it’s his angel behind them. Cas and Sam watch out for each other but it’s Dean that Cas keeps coming back for, just like it’s Dean that Cas is here with right now.

And Dean wants to reciprocate. He wants to give Cas all the warmth and satisfaction and content that Dean has been basking in recently, so Dean twists his wrists to fold his hands over Cas’s in turn.

“This time’s different,” Dean says. “I want it to be different, okay? And I want you to like the stuff we do.”

Cas stares right back and Dean wonders if he’s actually going to have spell it out – _you’re special, Cas, it’s different because it’s you, and I want you here with me, I want you_ happy _–_ but something sparks behind Cas’s eyes and the smile that spreads across his mouth is like the rising dawn, radiant.

Dean’s breath catches and he squeezes Cas’s fingers. That, right there, that’s worth all of Sam’s smirks when Dean ran his plans through his brother, the flutter of nerves as he agonized over diners and menus and whether Cas would even be back in time, and he wonders if Cas ever worried about the things he did, how he came to choose hot chocolate instead of cider or coffee, what thoughts went through his mind when he put that bouquet together.

“Hey,” Dean says. “When did you get so good at that?”

Cas’s eyebrows scrunch together. “At what?”

Dean lets one hand go to gesture nebulously at the air. “You know, the stuff you kept giving me. That’s stuff I would do—” _if I wanted to date someone_ , Dean finishes in his head, and he narrows his eyes at Cas. “I know for sure that you haven’t been asking Sam.”

“No,” and there’s the slightest pause before Cas continues on, “but I did have help.”

Dean’s eyebrows go up, and he has to squash down the sudden irrational flare in his chest. “Oh yeah?”

Cas shoots Dean a narrow-eyed stare of his own. “There’s a young woman named Kristen who has a girlfriend called Siobhan, and they played you and me in a musical with supernatural interferences that you and Sam subverted.”

Dean splutters. “ _What?_ ”

“I have enough grace to hear prayers when my name is invoked,” Cas says, and Dean looks away because he knows. He knows because the last time he prayed was when he thought he was on the last shreds of humanity, and Castiel heard.

Nowadays Cas is just a room or a phone call away, but Dean isn’t stupid. Cas will always hear him when he prays, because Dean doesn’t pray to anyone else.

Cas pulls his hand free and takes another step into Dean’s personal space, tugging the scarf more firmly around Dean’s neck. “She and some of the others involved in this musical know that the Winchester gospels are true, and she wanted to make sure I was okay.” Here Cas’s head tilts, bird curious. “Playing me apparently made her empathize with my situation.”

“And then what?” Dean blusters, because one, Cas is really distracting pressed this close, and two, when did teenage girls get involved in this? “She decided to give you dating advice? Via one-way speaker radio?”

“She didn’t pray for a few weeks after the first time. She didn’t want to distract me, she said. And the times after, they weren’t so much prayers as anecdotes about her life. What she and Siobhan are doing, the content moments she feels. They’re happy, and I… took inspiration from them. With modifications, of course.”

Dean’s back to feeling breathless. “And you did them for me. So I would be happy?”

Cas nods. “She always ends her prayers with a hope that both you and I are doing well. And I carry that hope together with my own whenever I see you.”

They’re so close like this, Dean’s foot slotted between Cas’s and Cas practically burrowing into Dean’s jacket, hands still on the scarf. All Dean can see are Cas’s eyes, brilliant blue like he’s absorbed the heart of winter.

He grabs Cas’s wrist and throws himself down on the snowbank. There’s a sudden resistance because Cas is an angel and no force on earth could move them if they didn’t will it, but before Dean’s arm can wrench to a halt Cas becomes pliable, his hands catching on Dean’s sleeve as they tumble into the snow, Cas managing to fall to the side instead of on top of Dean.

“Dean.” Cas’s voice is deep, a shivery rumble in the breath-heated air between them, and Dean smiles, reaching up with a mittened thumb to brush away the snowflakes clinging to Cas’s eyelashes.

“Did Kristen ever talk about making snow angels with Siobhan?”

Cas blinks at him. “No.”

“Well, she wouldn’t have,” Dean says. “Not like this.” He cups Cas’s cheek in one hand, the other burrowing through the snow to curl around the nape of Cas’s neck. “An angel in snow.”

There’s no mistletoe here, just bare trees and softly drifting snow and a vista of fairy lights twinkling over their heads. But that’s all right.

Dean doesn’t need an excuse to kiss the smile off his angel’s lips. 

\---

 _Dear Castiel_ ,

_I hope you can hear this, that you're out there and well. Um... so maybe I should start at the beginning. Sorry, I'm not really used to praying, um, to angels or anything -- I didn't really think angels actually exist, but after the musical--_

_Start at the beginning. Right._

_I don't know if Dean and Sam told you about us, but my friends and I - we're huge fans of Carver Edlund's_ Supernatural _books. Well, Siobhan isn't really a fan, but she reads the books because of me._

_Anyway. Marie wrote a musical based on the books, and we were days from opening week when strange things started happening. Long story short, these two federal agents showed up to investigate, and they saved the musical - and us - from what sounds like a pretty grizzly fate. That's when we realized that supernatural beings are real. No smoke without a fire, right?_

_Calliope sounded terrifying._

_I didn't think that those feds would be Dean and Sam though. That Dean and Sam Winchester are real, that the_ Supernatural _books are real. Marie let it slip, and most people just shrug it off... but I believe her._

_I played you in the musical. Castiel, angel of the lord. And Siobhan, she's my girlfriend, she played Dean. I got to spend a lot of time with her, and I always loved you and Dean together in the books. It was a lot of fun! But now I realized... if you're real, then you've lived through all the things in the books. You rebelled, you fought._

_You've waited under a streetlamp on an empty roadside, for Dean._

_I'm pretty sure a lot more happened than Mr. Edlund published in the books, since even the POD ones read a bit weird, like there are gaps in them. I think you can handle anything supernatural that's thrown at you, but --_

_Siobhan's really important to me. She’s pretty upfront about everything. Didn’t care what anyone thought, when she asked me out. And I know she joined the musical because I asked – okay, more like wheedled her to, no matter what she says about school credit – but I think it grew on her, playing Dean. She was brilliant at it._

_I love her. And I think – I think you and Dean love each other too. There’s love in the way you treat each other, in the sacrifices you’ve both made. In the words you say, even in the ways you’ve hurt one another, because love makes you vulnerable, it makes stings and cuts from anyone else hurt like nothing else when it’s coming from someone you love. I don’t know what form of love it is, but it’s there. It exists, and it’s real._

_I hope that no matter where you and him are that you’re together now._

_Wow… this is getting pretty sombre. I’m pretty sure you get lots of heavy duty prayers, and I’m not here to add to the load. It’s just – the weather’s getting colder, the days are shorter, and I tend to think about things more at this time of the year. And at the end of it all, I try to appreciate all the little things that make the day a little brighter. Like hot chocolate with cinnamon and just a pinch of cayenne. And watching Siobhan’s face light up when she comes in from the cold after tracking half a mile through town and I make a mug of it especially for her._

_I’d like to think that you and Dean are having warm moments like that too._

_Do you like hot chocolate?_

_Okay, I’m… small-chatting at you now, so I better head off. Sorry if I’m distracting you or anything! Do I -- amen? Does that work? How do I know if it worked?_

_Never mind._

_Take care, Castiel. Love, Kristen._

**Author's Note:**

> [1] The list of wintery date ideas I came up with that eventually became different sections of this fic: hot chocolate, dates (*shot for pun*), giving flowers, sharing a scarf (turned out to be Cas giving Dean his scarf), walk through a park at night, making snow angels, kiss in the snow. No mistletoe, although I managed to sneak mention of it in :D
> 
> [2] I love Kristen a lot. A lot a lot a lot. So bonus Kristen/Siobhan. 
> 
> [3] Title comes from Michael Buble's "[Cold December Night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d7GepflO6PQ)", which is also the song inspiration for this fic, particular this portion of the lyrics: _So please just fall in love with me this Christmas / There's nothing else that we will need this Christmas / Won't be wrapped under a tree / I want something to last forever/ So kiss me on this cold December night._
> 
>  
> 
> _They call it the season of giving / I'm here, I'm yours for the taking / They call it the season of giving /I'm here, I'm yours_
> 
>  
> 
>  [4] Happy holidays!


End file.
